


the place to lose your fears

by geewritessometimes



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling, Geralt Is In Denial, M/M, Marking, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Sharing a Bed, exasperated vesemir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geewritessometimes/pseuds/geewritessometimes
Summary: Happenstance forces Geralt and Jaskier to share a bed one night, and Geralt discovers that sleeping with him, for some reason, cures his insomnia. Obviously they have to keep doing it. Feelings get dredged up, and Geralt acts like an ass, but eventually, everything works out just fine.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 947





	the place to lose your fears

**Author's Note:**

> This is based mostly on the Netflix series.
> 
> Also, I just wanna say that I love how every author imagines Jaskier's scent differently. I've seen fics describe him as smelling like fresh baked bread, oak, orange blossom, spice, pine, flowers, you name it. It's all good tho cuz bitch u know he smell nice 
> 
> ALSO I made Vesemir a little magical. So what. What u gone do about it

After the episode in Posada with the elves Geralt forces Jaskier out of his company by sneaking out of town in the middle of the night before Jaskier has a chance to follow. Still, they run into each other again less than a month later in a small town called Daioka, despite Geralt’s best efforts. He walks into the local tavern without taking a moment to listen to the music coming from inside, and Jaskier’s eyes are upon him before he can extricate himself from the situation. Jaskier lights up and immediately stops performing. That, plus his unwavering gaze, makes everyone else turn to stare at Geralt too. His skin crawls and he grimaces. 

“Witcher! A job for you!”

“Yes, yes, we’ve got a terrible problem with-”

“Drowners! A whole nest of them!”

“Been killing all sorts of-” 

“My wife-” 

Everyone starts talking at once, begging him to take their coin, which he supposes is an improvement over stoning. He agrees to the job even though he hates drowners because he is  _ seriously  _ short on cash, to the point where he won’t even be able to afford a room in town unless he picks up a contract. It is what he came to Daioka for, after all. Unfortunately, he may have also picked up an extraneous travel companion in the process. Jaskier weaves through the crowd like water and he’s by Geralt’s side in seconds. 

“Long time no see, White Wolf! I knew destiny would knit our paths together once again, I just didn’t know it would be so soon! You know, most people wouldn’t take too kindly to being abandoned in the middle of the night, but as I am a magnanimous man, you’ll notice I don’t even mention it.” 

“Sporting of you.” Despite himself, Geralt smiles. 

“So, drowners. Need a hand?” Jaskier elbows him, and Geralt sees his sense of self-preservation is just as non-existent as ever. He kindly doesn’t break the boy’s arm. 

“I don’t recall you being much help last time.”

Jaskier huffs in offense. “May I call to memory the peppy commentary I delivered while the elves were kicking our ribs in?” 

“Don’t think I’ll have any need of that this time.” 

“Well, perhaps not, but it makes the whole thing a bit more theatrical, don’t you think? And it’s always nice to have an audience to dazzle with your performance, eh?” 

“You think you’ll be  _ dazzled _ by watching me slaughter a couple of drowners?” 

“What of it, if adventure and feats of swordsmanship get me a little hot under the collar? Indulge me, Geralt. Once more. At least let me take notes for another song- I’ve got pennies to my name and I’ll quite literally be sleeping on the ground outside tonight, as I can’t afford a room.” 

“Might be a bit distracting, you watching from the bushes and creaming your pants.” Geralt’s grinning now. 

Jaskier smirks and preens a little. “Distracting, eh? Well, I’m sure you can manage.” 

“... Fine.” Geralt says. 

“Yes! Oh, this will be so fun! New material! A new adventure! You have no idea how bored I’ve been these past few weeks,  _ no  _ idea. I was  _ just  _ hoping I’d run into you again…” 

An hour later finds them near the edge of the river, close to where it trickles into the swamp. Perfect drowner nesting spot. Geralt has ordered Jaskier to stay at least ten feet back from the bank, preferably behind a tree. He has his journal and quill at the ready, and is practically bubbling with excitement. Geralt patrols the bank under his attentive eye, and ponders the thought of the bard actually getting off on watching. He doesn’t smell anything yet, but then again, the action hasn’t started yet. Surprisingly, the thought isn’t… unappealing. 

Right then, a drowner bursts from the water and grabs Geralt’s arm, dragging him in. What ensues is an hour-long battle underwater, with a nest of upwards of 15 drowners, broken by periodic struggles to the surface for air. In the moments when his head momentarily clears the water, he sees that Jaskier has disobeyed him and come right up to the bank, and is watching with wide eyes. Geralt finds himself making an extra show of finishing the nest off, so that he’s sufficiently entertained. 

The turnaround in finishing the job and returning to the tavern for payment is relatively quick, and Geralt actually manages to get a room before the place closes for the night. He pays for it, and then turns around to see Jasker standing there behind him, looking like a lost puppy. 

“Ah, right. Guess I’ll just… Head out then. Find a hard, cold patch of dirt to sleep in. Been looking forward to this all day. Don’t worry about me! Don’t mind  _ at all,  _ nope, not me-” 

“I know what you’re doing. Shut up.” Geralt says as he grabs Jaskier’s collar and hauls him towards the stairs. “Mind games don’t work on me, bard.” 

“Seems like this one has.” Jaskier replies, grinning brightly. 

The room is quite nice actually. There’s a decent-sized bed and a bath already full of steaming water, and it doesn’t smell terrible. Geralt starts stripping off his armor and clothing, eager to wash the mucky swamp water off himself. He half-forgets Jaskier is even there as he gets into the bath, the hot water relaxing his muscles and making him drowsy. He forgets, that is, until he sees Jaskier climbing into the bed out of the corner of his eye. Jaskier’s already stripped down to just his undershirt and long underwear, as if he’s about to go to sleep. In Geralt’s bed. 

“Bard. Get out of my bed.” he grunts. 

“What! Where am I meant to sleep if not the bed?” Jaskier cries. 

“The floor?” 

Jaskier balks. “These are hardwood floors, you gorilla! I might as well sleep outside at that rate! I promise, I won’t take up but a little space. Look at me, I’m skin and bones. You won’t even notice I’m here.” 

Geralt grumbles, but doesn’t feel like fighting. He waves his hand in concession, and Jaskier claps cheerfully. He gets under the covers and turns over so his back is to Geralt, snuggling into the pillows. Geralt absentmindedly admires the curve his waist makes under the blankets. 

By the time Geralt’s finished with his bath, Jaskier is asleep, not snoring but breathing softly through his parted lips. He’s rolled over again and is facing Geralt’s side of the bed, face mushed against the pillow. Geralt is amazed at the implicit trust; he’s out cold in a room with someone he barely knows, a monster in human form with too much blood on his hands to even bear thinking about, a warrior armed to the teeth who could take just about anything he wanted from the bard. And yet, Jaskier sleeps. The way he’s sprawled out too, he’s clearly comfortable. Geralt just shakes his head and clambers in beside him, blowing out the bedside candle as he goes. As the mattress shifts under his weight, Jaskier snuffles and groans a little, wiggling closer subconsciously.  _ Won’t even notice I’m here.  _ Right. Geralt resigns himself to an uncomfortable night. 

Geralt wakes to sunlight on his face and frowns. He’s feeling  _ very  _ warm and a little sweaty, which means he’s been baking in the sunbeam for quite a while. He normally gets up before dawn, if he can even get to sleep to begin with, so this is highly unusual. He then notices a weight against his chest, and a tickling against his nose. He opens his eyes. He’s curled around Jaskier, the bard’s back plastered to his front, and in his sleep he seems to have also flung his left arm around him. His nose is buried in Jaskier’s soft brown hair. It smells warm and content.

With a groan, he begins to slowly extricate himself from Jaskier. His body feels heavy and well-rested, which is… Very strange. The sheets are tangled around his legs and hips in the most confusing way, as if he’d been moving around in his sleep. He usually sleeps on his back, straight as a board, and wakes at the slightest sound. He never moves around. How he came to be spooning Jaskier is an utter mystery to him. 

As he withdraws, Jaskier begins to sniff and mumble. Geralt gets about as far as sitting upright before Jaskier is lifting his head up to look over his shoulder, blinking sleepily. 

“Wha time ‘s it?” he murmurs, yawning. He turns over then, or at least tries to, when the sheets prevent him. The sheets tangled around Geralt are also tangled around Jaskier, draped over his curving hip in the most tantalizing way. His chemise has ridden up at some point during the night, and a strip of skin on his back is bared to Geralt. It feels unbearably intimate. A sleepy Jaskier is not a perceptive Jaskier, apparently, because he pays no attention to Geralt’s flummoxed expression. He curls into Geralt, facing him this time, and slings an arm around Geralt’s middle. His eyes close again. 

“Jaskier. I have to go.” he says gruffly. He really does. He  _ never  _ sleeps in this late. 

“Aww. Stay just another hour. I’m so comfy.” 

“You can come with. If you want.” Geralt has no idea why he says it. As soon as it’s out of his mouth he regrets it, but he can’t take the words back now. 

Jaskier’s head shoots up and he looks much more awake than he did a second ago. 

“Really?” 

Geralt grunts. 

“Oh,  _ yes! _ ” Jaskier scrambles out of bed, kicking the sheets off himself and catching Geralt in the shin in the process. “Yes, yes, yes!” 

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Geralt manages to say in the face of his enthusiasm. Jaskier is already pulling his pants back on. Geralt watches the waistband get stuck under the curve of his ass as Jaskier’s hips wiggle.

“I’ll be the best travel companion you’ve ever had, Geralt of Rivia, I promise you! Never again will there be a travel companion as terrific as I! You’ll speak of me long after I taste clay, bemoaning the fact that never again will you enjoy the companionship of Jaskier, barker of the White Wolf and finest chum to ever-” 

“Alright, alright. Enough, before I change my mind.” 

They go to Mag Deira next, because Geralt’s caught wind of a vampire problem down there and he may as well follow the lead. There are indeed vampires, or rather, one single vampire who’s grown obsessed with a local girl and has been killing every suitor who comes knocking at her door. Jaskier loves the drama. When the vampire won’t see reason and Geralt is forced to kill him, the girl looks oddly melancholy. Jaskier surmises his affections had been secretly returned, but forbidden by the girl’s father, who was the one to hire Geralt. 

“This will make a terrific song. Oh, my heart is broken for her! Don’t you agree?” he asks Geralt on their way to the local inn afterwards. 

“This is the inevitable outcome of monsters getting involved with the affairs of humans. This is why I stay away.” Geralt grumbles. 

“Okay, there are about fifty things I could take issue with there, but I’ll just say that you are most definitely not a monster, Geralt.” 

“You haven’t known me long enough to make that judgement, bard.”

“On the contrary. I’ve known you just long enough. Would a monster have let the Sylvan go? Would a monster have spoken with such compassion to Filavandrel, after just having had his teeth kicked in? Would a monster have pleaded with them to let me go free? Would a monster have tried to reason with the vampire before attempting to kill him? And would a monster have given that girl a comforting pat on the shoulder just now when he thought no one was looking, hmm?”

The last one catches him off-guard. Jaskier has keen eyes. 

“A few moments in the span of a very long life.” is Geralt’s reply. 

“And I’m sure someday I will learn all of your stories. But those are sufficient enough to pass reasonable judgement, my friend. You are no monster.” Jaskier’s voice is very soft, devoid of all his usual silliness. It’s arresting. 

And just as soon as it came, the moment passes, and Jaskier skips ahead, whistling a shanty and twirling with every other step. 

“I hope the inn will have potatoes. I’ve really been craving potatoes lately.” he babbles. 

The inn does actually have potatoes, which Geralt asks to be brought up to their room. Yes, they’re sharing a room again. Jaskier still doesn’t have any money, and Geralt actually doesn’t overly mind his company, though he’ll never tell him that. Geralt bathes while Jaskier sits at the little table nearby and eats.

“What’s the deal with your bath fetish?” Jaskier asks, waving his fork. 

“Wanting to be clean is not a fetish. You could do to learn that.” Geralt retorts. 

Jaskier gasps. “Are you saying I’m dirty? Listen, if I even had coin for a bath, I wouldn’t  _ need  _ one, because I actually sweat very little, and don’t go about throwing myself into swamps like you do.” 

Geralt raises an eyebrow and scents the air. True, Jaskier does not stink, but he definitely smells. Not bathing for a few days has allowed his natural scent to build up and take center stage, and he smells like… Like white lilies. White lilies and the idyllic summer breeze. It’s an inherently comforting smell, and not tinged even the slightest bit with sadness or malice or evil like most humans tend to be. Smells good. Smells pure. Jaskier notices his nostrils flaring, and looks affronted.

“There’s  _ no way  _ you can smell me from all the way over there.” 

“Witchers have an enhanced sense of smell, much like bloodhounds.” Geralt replies. “I can identify each individual’s unique scent from great distances. I can even smell fear.” 

Jaskier blinks, not having expected that answer. “Golly.  _ Do  _ I stink?” 

“No. You smell like flowers and happiness.” 

Jaskier blinks some more, surprised. He eats another chunk of potato as he studies Geralt’s face. 

“Careful there. You’ll have me thinking you actually like me.” he finally says. 

They share the bed again, without any protesting on Geralt’s part this time. Jaskier also drops the pretense of keeping himself on his side of the bed- as soon as Geralt gets in, Jaskier’s snuggling up against him. Geralt reluctantly allows it. 

“You’re so warm.” Jaskier mumbles, face tucked into the crook of his neck. 

“Elevated body temperature.” 

“Cool.” 

They fall asleep like that, Jaskier curled up against Geralt’s side with an arm flung over his chest and nose pressed to his throat. They wake up in the late morning in a completely different position: Jaskier on his back and Geralt starfished on top of him, face in Jaskier’s throat and the bard’s hands plastered to Geralt’s bare back. That is to say, _Geralt_ wakes up like that. Jaskier’s still dead to the world. As he pulls himself up and off him, Geralt is horrified to see that he’s _drooled_ a little on Jaskier’s shoulder in the night. And he’s overslept again! The room is filled with sunlight. 

Geralt pauses his self-extraction when he notices that Jaskier’s shift is riding up again, and their naked stomachs are pressed together. He can feel the movements of Jaskier’s breath inside his chest, and his heartbeat. He can feel the jut of Jaskier’s hipbone digging into his side. The smell of lilies is thick in the air. It’s too much, and right away he’s scrambling to remove himself from the sleeping form beneath him. A sleepy groan and a hand on his arm stops him momentarily. 

“Where’re you going?” Jaskier grumbles. 

“We’re late. We need to leave.” 

“Mmph.” Jaskier releases him, thankfully, and nuzzles the pillow. “Don’t wanna.” 

“Then stay. I’m going.” 

That wakes him up. He’s out of bed in a matter of seconds.

“You won’t get rid of me that easily, witcher.”

They continue on back towards the north, stopping here and there to pick up contracts. It’s summer now, so sleeping outside is not a problem most nights. They don’t actually have to, because now both Geralt and Jaskier have money (summer means more people cheerful enough to shell out coin to hear Jaskier perform), but they’ve agreed it’s smart to save up for the winter. Geralt hasn’t told Jaskier that he winters in Kaer Morhen every year, but he doesn’t need to know that yet. In the higher north, they’ll find some royal court to give him a winter contract, or some place where he can stay. Geralt will make sure of it. 

They’ve continued sharing a bed. It’s secretly Geralt’s favorite part of the day. He’s not sure what it is, but sleeping beside Jaskier knocks him out like nothing ever has. Geralt’s had insomnia since even before the trials and still does, though the mutagens make it so that he can function on little to no sleep at all. It’s a gauge of his state of mind; when he’s stressed or upset, he won’t be able to sleep at all, and though he can still function, he’ll be irritable and angry until he manages to sleep again. It happens all the time. And now, Jaskier has appeared and resolved all those problems. Geralt wonders if it might be his scent. The bard smells like the intense bliss of an idyllic summer day, like flowers and warmth and home. He smells like everything will be alright, like there’s no need to take everything so seriously. Geralt can’t get enough. 

They sleep together with reckless abandon. Geralt’s never been so tactile with anyone over such a long period of time, not even the whores he buys sometimes when he’s travelling alone. When they’re awake, Jaskier wisely doesn’t say anything about Geralt’s complete lowering of personal boundaries as soon as they get into bed. He doesn’t ask why, but that’s probably because he knows damn well why. He’s much cleverer than he lets on. So he says nothing about how by sundown, Geralt is practically dragging him to the bedroll and throwing him in so that he can go to sleep. Says nothing about how handsy and cuddly Geralt is, manhandling Jaskier and spooning him and snuggling into him like an affectionate cat. The positions they wake to find themselves in are sometimes baffling. Jaskier once woke up to find himself wearing Geralt’s shirt (which Geralt had gone to bed in) and his own shirt (which  _ he’d  _ gone to bed in) lying on the ground ten feet away. They’ve woken up to find that they rotated all the way around in the night, with their heads now where their feet had been. One morning Jaskier even woke up to find himself lying crosswise with his legs on Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt has drooled on him an embarrassing number of times. He’s pretty sure he snores, too. He can’t help it, though. It feels too good to share a bed with Jaskier. 

His favorite thing is sleeping in and letting the early summer sun slowly rouse him. It usually trickles in through the flowering trees overhead and dapples his face unobtrusively, bringing with it the smell of summer meadowgrass. Those mornings are the first moments of true peace he’s felt in a long time, and are made all the better by Jaskier’s sleeping form, smelling of lilies. It’s odd that such a loud and obnoxious creature could be capable of bringing Geralt such peace, but it seems that Jaskier is a double-edged sword. 

Unfortunately, though, summer does not last forever, and soon enough, the chilly winter winds are sweeping down from the north. The trees lose their leaves, the ground turns hard. Geralt knows it’s time to head back to Kaer Morhen. He just has to tell Jaskier. 

They’ve stopped for a night in Novigrad, which is quite close to Jaskier’s hometown of Lettenhove. He’s mentioned that his family has an estate there, his father an earl or something like that. He’ll be able to safely return there for the winter. It’s even in the direction of Kaer Morhen, so Geralt could drop him off. He feels now is the time. 

“Jaskier.” 

They’re sitting side-by-side in front of the hearth in their rented room, warming their feet. The walk here was not easy, with frost on the ground and the wind whipping fierce. Jaskier’s cheeks are still red and ruddy. 

“Hmm?” 

“Winter will be here soon.” 

“Quite perceptive of you, dear witcher.” 

Geralt sighs. “I winter every year back at Kaer Morhen. I’m going to head there tomorrow when this contract is finished.” 

“Mm? Is it quite far? If so, I might have to get some new boots. These ones are holding on by a prayer and a blessing.” Jaskier pats his boots, which are lying beside him. 

“You’re not coming with me.” 

“What?!” Jaskier exclaims, turning to stare at Geralt with wide eyes. “Why not?” 

“No humans are allowed to set foot inside.”

“Says who?” 

“Says tradition. And Vesemir.” 

Jaskier huffs. He looks hurt. “Ah. Geralt of Rivia, the mighty witcher, no match for the forces of tradition. Silly of me to think otherwise.” 

“I don’t make the rules.” 

“Never took you as a stickler for following rules.” Jaskier turns to stare at his feet. 

“I never said you could travel with me forever.” Geralt’s getting angry now. Did he ever give Jaskier the impression that he would invite him back to Kaer Morhen? That he would take him home to meet his family like some bridegroom? Didn’t he tell Jaskier he didn’t want him tagging along all the way back in Posada? 

Jaskier glares at him. “No, but you gave me the impression we were friends.” 

“Well that was my mistake.” It’s too far, Geralt knows it instantly as soon as the words are out of his mouth. 

Jaskier blinks in shock, and then quickly averts his gaze when tears spring to his eyes, hoping Geralt won’t see but it’s too late. There’s a long beat of silence, and then Jaskier gets to his feet. Geralt keeps his eyes trained on the fire, but listens as Jaskier pulls his boots on and then his heavy leather coat. The musical sound of the lute thumping against Jaskier’s back as he slings it over his shoulder. Footsteps to the door, and then a pause. 

“Sorry for burdening you with my existence. Won’t happen again.” Dripping with sarcasm and poorly-concealed pain. 

And then the door opens and closes, and Jaskier is gone. 

Geralt feels utterly horrible. It’s like he said to him during the episode with the vampire- this is why monsters don’t involve themselves in the affairs of humans. This is what always happens. Geralt’s very presence always spells the workings of imminent disaster. He grabs his sword, wrenches Renfri’s brooch off of it, and flings it across the room. 

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t sleep a wink that night. 

  
  


Kaer Morhen is miserable. It’s nice to see his brothers again, and Vesemir, but too many witchers have come home for the winter this year, and it’s packed and chaotic and  _ he can’t fucking sleep.  _ He wanders around all day in an exhausted and tense daze, speaking to no one unless spoken to and barely picking at his food. He spends half his time in the stables with Roach, just so that he won’t get roped into any conversations with anyone. Vesemir notices all of this of course, but wisely holds his tongue. 

Geralt doesn’t sleep for the entire month of December, which actually begins to take a physical toll on him. By week five, his vision has begun to get hazy and his feet uncoordinated. He eventually collapses from exhaustion and sleeps for a full day and night, and then the cycle begins again. It’s then that Vesemir talks to him.

“Come here, you little shit.” he beckons Geralt over to where he’s sitting by the hearth. Geralt obeys. “I won’t pretend not to know what’s bothering you.” 

Geralt is tired of all the people he knows being fucking psychic. 

“This has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen a witcher lose his mind over. I hope you know that.”

Geralt grunts. 

“Instead of killing yourself over it, plan out what you’ll say when you hunt the boy down in the spring, and then get some goddamn sleep. And stop moping.” Vesemir waves him away. 

Geralt goes, and frowns as he walks to his room. He hadn’t thought of that. 

He lays down in his bed and envisions what he might say to Jaskier if he saw him again, and somewhere along the way, he falls asleep.

  
  


It’s not until May that he finds Jaskier again. Hunting him down after leaving Kaer Morhen in March feels sillier by the day, especially when Jaskier seems to have vanished into thin air. It’s been half a year. Jaskier is barely nineteen. He’s probably forgotten all about Geralt, wherever he is, and if Geralt weren’t a fool, he’d have forgotten him too. But here he is, wasting time searching all over the continent for the bastard. 

He wasn’t at Lettenhove, and his sisters helpfully informed Geralt that he hadn’t come home at all that winter, which makes a hard knot of anxiety twist in Geralt’s gut. He wasn’t anywhere in Gustfields, or Novigrad. The innkeeper at the last place they’d stayed in November said, after some thinking, that Jaskier had stayed an extra few nights in a different room before hitting the road to who knew where. With no leads, Geralt had searched every town on every major roadway out of Novigrad for weeks, to no avail. The only trail he’d picked up was the popularity of Jaskier’s songs. They seemed to be significantly more well-known on the Great West Road, which stretched south along the coast, and so Geralt followed. The tavern owners he spoke to on the way through Temeria had all hosted the bard, though it had been weeks past by now. Geralt crossed through to Cidaris, and Kerrack, and Verden, and eventually came to Nazair, dangerously close to the Nilfgaardian border. By happenstance, he found his way to a tavern that had hosted the bard just the previous night, and the owner was able to tell him that Jaskier was on his way down further to Izmet. Geralt was catching up. 

Now, he’s reached Izmet, and the sun is beginning to set. Geralt gambles between trying the inn or the tavern first, and decides on the tavern. He stables Roach for a penny, and goes in. It’s quite crowded for a place this far south, and lively too. He keeps to the shadows, scoping the room out, and his heart skips a beat when he sees a familiar blue doublet seated at the bar, back to the witcher. It’s surprising how forceful Geralt’s relief is at seeing him. Geralt takes a fortifying breath and recalls his plan, pleased that everything is actually going the way he’d imagined. He makes his way over, and takes a very ginger seat next to Jaskier, waving the bartender over in the same movement. 

“Barkeep. An ale- one for me, and one for  _ my friend _ .” he says very deliberately. And then he meets Jaskier’s eyes. 

Jaskier looks like a stiff breeze could blow him over, and his jaw is hanging open. 

“Geralt…!” 

“Nice to see you too, Jaskier.” Geralt smirks and closes Jaskier’s jaw with his finger. 

Jaskier laughs in amazement. “What on  _ earth  _ are you doing here?” 

“Oh, you know.” Geralt shrugs. “Heard there was some wailing beast terrorizing the coast. I’ve come to collect him.” 

“Now that’s just rude.” Jaskier’s grinning. 

They get a room together, of course. In bed, they talk.

“How was Kaer Morhen?” 

Geralt grunts. “Miserable.” 

“Why? I thought you were excited.” 

“Couldn’t sleep.” 

Jaskier hums. “Ah. Well, after you left, I worked my way down the coast, as you probably guessed. I only got booed out of one establishment  _ all winter!  _ I think my songs are improving! I didn’t intend to come this far south, but the people in Nazair are so nice, I just couldn’t leave without seeing the rest of the kingdom. Do you know, there was an old woman who stopped me in the street and just gave me this bracelet? Look at it, it’s nice! Isn’t that so nice? Why can’t everywhere be like Nazair?” 

“That’s a curse token. They give those out to give foreigners bad luck.” Geralt grabs the bracelet and snaps it off Jaskier’s wrist, chucking it into the corner of the room. 

“Oh. Well. It’s probably time to head north, anyways.” Jaskier sighs. “I’m thinking of going up the Great East Road, at least until Aedirn. What are your plans?” 

Geralt grunts. He wants Jaskier to come with him. He doesn’t know how to say it. 

“I, uh. Well. I have to keep taking contracts. And uh… Some peppy commentary would be… Nice.” He’s such an ass. 

But Jaskier sits up and leans on one elbow to look at him. “Geralt. Are you asking me to come with you?” 

Geralt grunts. 

“Ah, my dear emotionally stunted witcher. I’ve forgiven you, you know. I shouldn’t have expected so much. I can see that these sorts of things take time with you. Your actions speak louder than your words anyways, always have. Silly of me to get so upset over something you didn’t mean.”

“Sometimes you sound much older than nineteen.” is Geralt’s tangential reply. But he really does appreciate Jaskier’s ease with words and emotions- it more than compensates for his own ineptitude. 

“I’ll be twenty soon, I’ll have you know.” Jaskier says airily. 

“Practically ancient.” Geralt agrees solemnly. 

Jaskier giggles and hits him on the chest. Geralt catches his arm and throws him over and onto the other side of the bed, tumbling him onto his back. Jaskier’s really laughing now, and his scent is suddenly overpowering, filling the whole room with white lilies and joy. It feels like sunlight is streaming in through all the windows, even though it’s the dead of night outside. Geralt finds himself leaning over him, breathing him in. Jaskier quiets, and reaches up to stroke Geralt’s face. His hands are soft. 

“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I can be patient when I need to be.” Jaskier murmurs. 

He won’t have to be patient tonight. Geralt leans down and kisses him, winding his arms underneath him to capture him in a tight embrace. Jaskier moans and throws his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, giving back as good as he gets. The feeling of a slick, hot tongue against his own gets Geralt hard right away, to the point where he’s straining against his pants and Jaskier can undoubtedly feel it against his hip. He’s not entirely sure why he’s so horny, or maybe he knows exactly why, but either way, he feels like a desperate teenager begging for permission by frantically jabbing his partner with his manhood and hoping the message gets across. He’s embarrassed. He usually has more finesse than this. Jaskier pulls away with a gasp.

“Sweet  _ Melitele,  _ Geralt, if you don’t sheath that sword inside me this very instant, I shall become  _ very cross  _ and possibly come in my pants before we actually get anywhere _.”  _ Jaskier groans, and it seems Geralt’s barbaric humping has successfully translated. 

Geralt responds by sinking his teeth into Jaskier’s white lily throat, grinding the soft flesh between his incisors in the heat of his passion. His hands are on the laces of his pants now that he’s been given the go-ahead, yanking them open and freeing his cock with a groan of relief. He’s a little stunned at his own desperation. Jaskier makes quick work of his own pants as Geralt chews on him and marks his throat up, and soon they’re grinding skin-to-sweaty-skin, and Geralt might explode with the force of his own desire. Jaskier’s thighs are spread wide to accommodate him between them, his head thrown back as he moans, the bed creaking as they hump against each other. 

“Please, please, please Geralt, please fuck me, I want you inside me so badly I could scream-” 

Geralt manages to snatch a bottle of oil from his pack, which is lying near enough to the bed that he can reach it. He drops the cork and loses it in the sheets when he opens it, dumps an excessive amount of the stuff into his hand, slathers his cock with it, and throws the bottle. He hears it shatter against the floor. Doesn’t matter, because he’s pushing into Jaskier, who tosses his head to the side and positively screams just like he promised he would, toes curling. Once he’s all the way in, Jaskier seizes hold of his shoulders and drags him down to kiss him, and Geralt starts an absolutely brutal pace. His strength, normally so carefully restrained, is flying wildly out of control, and he has no idea how rough he’s being, but Jaskier is making noises like he’s never felt such ecstasy before, and so Geralt doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, not even a bit. 

“Fuck yes, fuck, fuck, just like that,  _ fuck…”  _ Jaskier’s moans set Geralt on fire. Primal satisfaction at his mate’s pleasure; he’s gasping and moaning purely because Geralt’s cock is so stellar, so good, he’s doing so good, Jaskier’s gonna come any second now… 

Jaskier plants his feet onto Geralt’s thighs and begins throwing his hips into Geralt’s thrusts, and Geralt’s momentary pang of jealousy ( _ where did he learn to do that _ ) is overwhelmed by a bolt of arousal shooting straight through him and into his balls.  _ Jaskier wants it so bad.  _ Geralt’s getting close already. He bends forward to latch onto Jaskier’s throat again, and at the same time, pins Jaskier’s dick to his own stomach with the palm of his hand so that it moves against it with the jostling of their bodies. 

Jaskier promptly comes with a long, drawn-out moan, loud enough that they’ll probably have people banging on the walls soon. It shoots all over Geralt’s hand and his chest, and instantly, the bitter, masculine smell hits Geralt’s nose like a punch. He can’t help his own orgasm; he goes off like a shot as soon as he smells it, filling Jaskier right up. It isn’t until the high ebbs that he realizes he’s been biting down on Jaskier and grunting through clenched teeth. 

He eventually pulls out and collapses beside him. He’s winded. They both just lay there, gasping for breath, for a good long while. No words are needed. 

That is, until Jaskier heaves a big happy sigh and stretches his legs out towards the ceiling, wiggling his toes, and speaks. 

“ _ Fuck. _ ” 

Geralt grins. “Aptly put.” 

Geralt sleeps like a rock that night. He spoons Jaskier from behind and holds him close, nuzzling the back of his neck and smelling the impending summer bliss that’s right around the corner, that’s always there, in fact, in Jaskier’s smile and his joy. The feel of the backs of his thighs pressed against the tops of Geralt’s, his shallow breaths which fill his chest, and his delicate fingers holding onto Geralt’s forearms. Geralt is out almost instantly, and while he sleeps, he dreams- of Jaskier, in a sunny field of white lilies, singing to his heart’s content. 


End file.
